Engag'd my wonder; and, admiring still, Pathetic in its praise, in its pursuit Determin'd, and possessing it at last With transports such as favour'd lovers feel, I still revere thee, courtly though retir'd; For a lost world in solitude and verse. 'Tis born with all: the love of Nature's works Is an ingredient in the compound man, Infus'd at the creation of the kind. And, though th' Almighty Maker has throughout Discriminated each from each, by strokes And touches of his hand, with so much art Twins at all points-yet this obtains in all, And all can taste them: minds that have been form'd And tutor'd, with a relish more exact, But none without some relish, none unmov'd. It is a flame that dies not even there, Where nothing feeds it: neither business, crowds, Whatever else they smother of true worth The villas with which London stands begirt, The glimpse of a green pasture, how they cheer Ev'n in the stifling bosom of the town, A garden, in which nothing thrives, has charms That soothe the rich possessor; much consol'd, That here and there some sprigs of mournful mint, Of nightshade, or valerian, grace the well He cultivates. These serve him with a hint Of orange, myrtle, or the fragrant weed, The Frenchman's darling? are they not all proofs That man, immur'd in cities, still retains His inborn intextinguishable thirst Of rural scenes, compensating his loss. By supplemental shifts, the best he may? The most unfurnish'd with the means of life, And they that never pass'd their brick-wall bounds To range the fields and treat their lungs with air, Yet feel the burning instinct: over head Mignonette. Suspend their crazy boxes, planted thick, And water'd duly. There the pitcher stands Hail, therefore, patroness of health, and ease, I shall not add myself to such a chase, To the deliv'rer of an injur'd land He gives a tongue t' enlarge upon, an heart To me an unambitious mind, content A wish for ease and leisure, and ere long |